


Nine Lives of the Human Heart

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Intrigue, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Shower Sex, Sweet Ending, Uncertain John, there is a dog too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are flatmates again at Baker Street, stitching their lives back together, navigating around everything left unsaid between them -- until one hot night the barriers come crashing down. Yet nothing is ever quite that simple. Sherlock has a debt to repay for eliminating Magnussen, and John, still wary of being broken again, has to decide how deeply to let himself get involved.  Starts off a bit dark, ends up steamy and sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly AU in that there is no pregnancy or baby Watson to worry about and there is no imminent threat of Moriarty's return.

The spring sunlight felt so good on John's face after a seemingly endless winter that he stopped on his way home, sought out a park bench, and turned his face upward to soak in the warming rays.

Finally, finally, he felt part of the world again. It’d been a year since the marriage had been officially dissolved, and Mary vanished, willingly erasing her existence once again.

He regretted it all. What he had once imagined would be a new beginning ended as a string of dark and disturbing events. He should have seen through her...

He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, letting the heat burn his palms for a moment, bringing him back to the present. No use going down that road again, rehashing the same old thoughts. Move on.

He had just finished his shift at the clinic, where the sound of hearts and lungs and mundane complaints had been oddly comforting to him for the past months. It was a place where he felt useful, competent; where he could be concerned but detached. Lately, however, with the turn in the weather and the repetition of routine, he was beginning to get a bit restless. For what, exactly, he didn’t know.

For now, he was content to let the sunlight warm his skin and turn the world red behind his closed lids.

*****

An hour later John fit the key into the lock at Baker Street, climbed the stairs, and hung his jacket on the hook behind the door. He had moved back in nearly half a year ago, leaving the flat he’d shared with Mary. It was good to be somewhere that felt like home.

It also helped that Sherlock had accepted his return without question. They never spoke about the past; neither was adept at articulating such things. And where would they start, anyway? How could they maneuver through mistakes and betrayals, bullets and lies? It was difficult territory, and so it remained untouched.

He went to the window, looked down at the street, feeling a bit jittery. Maybe he shouldn’t have had that late coffee.

He pulled out his laptop and sat down to write. It wasn’t anything for the public, just things he set into words to clarify his own thoughts, a form of therapy. Sometime later he paused to stretch his neck, glancing out the window again.

A movement under a streetlight caught his attention, and he watched as Sherlock crossed the street, his dark coat swirling around him like a storm cloud. John smiled slightly. Always so dramatic.

He closed the laptop as he heard Sherlock take the stairs two at a time up to the flat.

“Did anyone stop by?” Sherlock asked, pulling off his coat.

“No. Were you expecting someone?”

“Possibly. Doesn’t matter.” He went to the desk, rummaged around for a scrap of paper, pulled out his phone, and wandered toward the kitchen as he waited for the call to connect. Whoever it was didn't pick up, causing Sherlock to curse under his breath and begin texting furiously.

The calm John had been enjoying was broken, but he didn't mind. Finally, Sherlock looked up at him. “Working tonight?”

“No. I’m off until Tuesday.”

Sherlock nodded, rose up on his toes a moment, hesitating before asking a seemingly simple question. “Care to come to the morgue?”

John had not been assisting him on cases beyond serving as a sounding board or offering a medical opinion when asked. He glanced at his hands. Maybe it was time to start again. “Sure.”

Sherlock could not hide his surprise. “Excellent. Good. Lestrade will meet us there. Ready in five minutes?”

“I'm ready now.” John stood up from the chair and took his coat from behind the door.

As Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck, John caught a fleeting glimpse of a smile before his face resettled to its usual hauteur.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock held his phone, watching the reflections from the outside lights shift across the glass screen as the cab moved through the city. He was pleased that John had agreed to come along. He looked more rested, less drawn and tense than he had in a long time. 

For the past few months they had quietly co-existed while John regained his footing. They fell into a routine of The Work and John’s job at the clinic, books and Mrs. Hudson bringing tea and biscuits, companionable silences and sometimes a whiskey, the violin and John writing, a pint with Stamford, a clash with Mycroft. But no discussions about all that had happened, no conversations about what had been implied, but left unsaid, between them.

Maybe that would come. Maybe not. Sherlock both yearned to talk about it and dreaded it. He didn’t know what John thought. As easy as it was to assess other people, he often had great difficulty reading John Watson. The man kept things very tightly concealed. He wished… Sherlock stopped himself. Wishing was pointless. He jammed the phone back into his pocket.

It was fine. In fact, the situation was more than he could have expected a year ago. Their friendship had survived, battered but intact, and maybe that was enough to be going on. 

He had missed this, though, working with John.

“What changed your mind?” Sherlock finally asked. “Why this case?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugged. “No work tomorrow. Too much coffee.”

Sherlock smiled. “It’s been awhile since you’ve been to Bart’s. Molly Hooper will be glad to see you.”

“Yeah, it’ll be good,” John agreed. “I could do with a change of pace.”

The cab stopped in front of the looming hospital and they stepped out, Sherlock pausing to pay the driver. As the taxi pulled away, he turned back to see John’s gaze fixed on the square of pavement where Sherlock had apparently fallen, supposedly died.

Despite the years that had passed since that day, Sherlock’s gut twisted. Damn, he didn’t want to be haunted by this again. He stared at the spot somberly. "John, I... " He kept his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath. “If I could go back and change things, I would. Believe me.” He ran out of words.

John’s mouth was a tight line for several moments, then he consciously relaxed his shoulders. “I know. I’d change things, too.” 

Their eyes met, and Sherlock suddenly felt flooded with a thousand things that he should have said, could say now. He opened his mouth, then swiftly lowered his head as several groups of hospital workers jostled by, chatting and smoking after a shift change. 

He bit his lower lip. He couldn’t do it after all. Not here surrounded by people and raw memories. He desperately craved a cigarette to occupy his hands, anything to distract him as he waited for John to say something.

John finally cleared his throat. “Well, I imagine that Greg and Molly are waiting.”

Sherlock nodded, regained control. “Shall we?”

*****

John walked slightly behind Sherlock as they made their way through the familiar hallways toward the morgue. His mind was turning over what had just happened. He’d seen a similar look cross Sherlock’s face that day on the tarmac, just before he boarded a plane for a six-month assignment that was mysteriously aborted. Sherlock was on the verge of saying something then, just as he had been now outside the hospital.

John rubbed his temples. He no longer trusted his own interpretation of other people’s expressions, actions, motives. Nothing of a personal nature, anyway. He’d been so wrong, so many times.

And yet… something was there. All these years, a thread drawn between them -- stretched, frayed, and knotted by now -- but unbroken. 

But, God, Sherlock confused the hell out of him. From hot to cold, intense to lethargic, pensive to rude in a flash. Mercurial, that was the word. Often unbearable. Inaccessible except for those little cracks in the armor John saw, or thought he saw, at times. Like tonight. There was so much he didn’t know. He wanted that armor to fall away. 

They had reached the morgue. Sherlock stopped, waited for him to catch up, then pulled open the door. The smell of disinfectant and death hit John in the face. Molly looked up and smiled just as a hand clapped him on the back. 

“John! Good to see you,” Lestrade grinned. “Just like old times, eh?”


	3. Chapter 3

A bird song. What kind was it? One that meant summer had arrived, the sun rising earlier, something from the days when he was growing up and his family stayed in the country and he and Harry played in a stream catching frogs. A lark?

John woke more fully, disoriented for a moment. The angle of his bed and the room felt familiar. He thought of Sherlock… Mary… then everything fell into place.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes. It’d been a late night going through a box of documents and papers with Sherlock, trying to find something to break a suspect’s alibi. He’d finally turned in at midnight and left Sherlock downstairs sorting and muttering.

Since going to the morgue he’d somehow been drawn back into the casework over the past several weeks, staying up too late, cutting back his hours at the clinic, falling back into the madness of it all. And, like an idiot, he was enjoying it.

He got up and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, made coffee and fetched the paper while half awake.

He had an hour to himself before Sherlock appeared, sullen and rumpled and in no mood for talking. John poured him a coffee and slid the mug, then the sugar, across the table without comment.

In half an hour it was safe to ask if he’d found anything useful last night. Sherlock shook his head. “Not yet. But there are two more boxes to go through.”

“Sorry, but I’m scheduled this afternoon. You’re on your own.” John took a bite of toast, completely unremorseful.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and turned the paper to a new page. John stood up, gathered his dishes, and reached for Sherlock’s empty cup at the same moment Sherlock put his hand out to pick it up. Their fingers collided, briefly tangled, and John quickly pulled his hand back. “Sorry.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, a current passing between them. John thought back to the night they stood outside of Bart’s, locked in that same unwavering gaze. He felt his face flush with heat.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, slowly tilting the cup. "I could have sworn there was something left.” He paused, then added quietly, “Or did we finish it all?”

John wasn't sure they were talking about the coffee. He focused on Sherlock's fingers curved around the mug. "I think..." John finally said, "I think there's more." He made himself look at the coffee pot where a small amount remained. "Might be a tad... bitter, though." He picked up the carafe and poured the rest into Sherlock's cup.

Sherlock heaped a spoon with sugar, stirred it into the murky black. “That can be amended.” He took a sip and turned back to the paper.

John held the carafe, bemused, uncertain how much he wanted to read into the conversation. He wanted… He wanted not to be destroyed again.

Sherlock was far from a safe haven if he was looking for stability. But was that what he really wanted? If not stability, then perhaps it was certainty he sought. Assurance that he would not be abandoned or betrayed again.

He set the empty coffee pot near the sink and gazed out the window. He watched as a stray black cat dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. _Nine lives,_ John thought. How many lives did a human heart have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how widely known the superstition is, but there's an old belief that cats have nine lives. Maybe hearts do too, even after they're broken?


	4. Chapter 4

John had left his laptop on the desk when he went to work. Sherlock paused, ran his fingers across the brushed metallic finish of the lid. He often wondered what John wrote about. He knew it wasn’t for a blog, so it must be personal.

Respecting privacy had never been his strong suit; it was just so much more efficient to obtain information in a direct way. It was extremely tempting to take a quick look. There was probably a new password, but that had never proven to be much of a problem.

His hand continued to rest on the lid, the sleep mode light pulsing like a small heartbeat.

It really wasn’t his concern.  
It would be considered unethical.  
It would make John angry, and that was not a good thing.

The last reason ultimately convinced him to step away.

Pressing his hands together, he turned to the two remaining boxes haphazardly filled with papers. He was searching for a ticket stub, a receipt, anything that would show the murder suspect, a banker (oh, how he despised bankers), had not been working in his office between 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. as he claimed. He dumped the contents of one box onto the kitchen table and began sorting.

*****

John’s phone buzzed on his desk where he was updating files between seeing patients. A text from Sherlock.

     _A mistake: latte._

John rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make sense of the message. He suddenly made the connection. He texted back.

_Did you find a receipt?_

           _Coffee shop several blocks away from victim’s flat. Idiot._

John laughed, assumed the “idiot” was not meant for him. Although you never could be sure. He quickly wrote back.

_Security camera footage?_

          _Lestrade’s working on it._

John set his phone back on his desk, sorry to be missing the rush of a breakthrough. He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. There was a knock on the door and the next patient was ushered in.

*****

When John arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock was working at the desk, his back to the door. John placed a few grocery bags on the kitchen table. “Anything new with the case?” he asked.

“Just more damning evidence.” Sherlock pointed to a grainy image on the screen of his laptop. “Lestrade sent an outtake from the security camera footage. There’s our murderer, coming out of the coffee shop. Clearly not at work as he claimed.”

John moved to stand behind Sherlock, leaned down over his shoulder to take a closer look. The man seemed ordinary enough, like any other office worker in a nice suit. “You never know what people will do,” he mused.

“Turns out he was embezzling, too,” Sherlock added, leaning back in the chair.

The movement caused John to become acutely aware of how close his own cheek was to Sherlock’s neck, the scent of crisp soap and sharp cedar and faint smoke rising off his skin. John’s eyes flicked to the side, catching a glimpse of dark curls, white open collar, pale throat. He knew he should move, but couldn’t.

He waited several beats more, lost in a brief reverie of wondering whether Sherlock’s neck would feel warm or cool to his lips if he were to place his mouth just below his ear… John slowly straightened up.

“Have they made an arrest?” he finally managed to ask, his own voice sounding oddly hollow.

“It should be soon, once the paperwork’s in order.” Sherlock kept his gaze on the screen.

He knew, John thought, he knew what he’d been thinking. God, this was torture. He was so conflicted, so afraid of making another huge mistake. He walked back to the kitchen, blindly putting away tins and tea and milk in all the proper places.

He closed the fridge door, holding onto the handle a moment while he struggled to clear his head. When he turned back, he saw that Sherlock was no longer at the desk. Next he heard the bang of the downstairs door closing.

John lowered his head. Shit.


	5. Chapter 5

Several hours later, John sent a text.

      _Everything OK?_

Ten minutes later a reply arrived.

      _Fine. Arrest made._

John held his phone in one hand, a Scotch, his second large pour, in the other. What should he write next, if anything? He sighed, tossed the phone onto the side table and slid down further into his chair, pressing the cool glass against his forehead. The day had grown hot during the afternoon, and the flat felt oppressive.

Forget it, he had to get out of here. He emptied the glass, then grabbed his phone, heading out the door.

He walked briskly in the fading summer light, trying to outpace his confusion. He wanted to be with Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure if that meant being in his company, or allowing for something more. And if it was something more… His chest tightened. He walked faster.

*****

Sherlock finished entering the parameters for the samples then sat back as the program ran the analysis. It was after hours, the lab empty, the lights dim.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. John.

      _Where are you?_

Sherlock hesitated before writing back.

      _Lab._

There was no reason he had to be working this late, but he didn’t feel like going back to the flat and the tangle of conflicting signals from John. It was wearing on him. He had sensed a flicker of interest from him earlier as he leaned over his shoulder, a flame John had quickly smothered.

Sherlock was not unaware that he elicited a certain reaction from people, both women and men, which he sometimes used to his advantage or, more often, simply ignored. But with John, it was different: it meant something. Maybe it didn’t matter to John in the same way. The hell with it. He put it out of his mind.

While he waited for the results, Sherlock scrolled through the inbox on his phone, searching for a new case. Another text came in, this time from Mycroft.

      _We need to talk. My office tomorrow at 11._

Sherlock frowned, typed back:

      _Tell me now._

          _In person. I’ll send a car._

Sherlock was not left with a good feeling about this. He was formulating a needling reply to Mycroft when he heard a soft knock on the door. He looked up, was surprised to see John through the window, chatting with an older woman. She left and John leaned into the room part way. “Mind if I come in?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not at all. Who was that?”

“Margaret. She let me in.” Seeing no recognition, John elaborated. “She’s worked here for years. You’ve met her before, remember?”

Sherlock didn’t remember. Deleted.

John, giving up on the subject, took a few steps, then stopped at the far end of the lab bench.

“So…” he said. “I was out for a walk, and sort of… ended up here.” He absently ran a palm over the benchtop.

“I see.” Sherlock folded his arms, remained sitting, watching as John’s face shifted through a series of expressions before he finally spoke again.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” John asked. “I was standing in this exact spot, and you were there, deducing the hell out of me.” John smiled, glanced up at the ceiling. “That was, what, more than five years ago.”

Sherlock remembered it in every detail.

John placed both hands on the benchtop, pressed down on the surface. “You were the most frustrating, fascinating person I’d ever met. Still are, in fact.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, not yet sure what was unfolding.

“Look, I… I don’t know what I’m trying to say, exactly,” John’s head was bowed. “I’ve been through some difficult times, and it’s not easy to talk about, but I appreciate everything… So, thank you for... being there.”

Sherlock unfolded his arms. “Of course. Always.”

John looked up at that last word, an emotion rippling across his face that made Sherlock study him more closely. Just then the computer sounded a light chime, a prompt for the next stage of the analysis. Sherlock paused, reluctant to interrupt their exchange, but not wanting to lose the work, either. “I should take care of this.”

“No, it’s fine, go ahead,” John said.

Sherlock, still seated, turned to the keyboard, and John moved closer to glance at the screen. Something to do with levels of toxins in a sample.

As Sherlock typed, John thought again about that day more than five years ago. Christ, he still had the cane then. He’d shot a man to save Sherlock even though they’d only just met. Their lives had entwined almost instantly.

And here they were again, replaying yet another scene that had taken place not years, but mere hours ago as he stood behind Sherlock while he worked. His eyes were drawn to Sherlock’s neck again. _Warm or cool?_ In the dim light, with deserted hallways, he had a second chance to find out.

They were at a tipping point, John thought. They could go on indefinitely as they were, uncertain, ambiguous, armored. He could go on living in a grey world and do nothing, or he could take a risk, allowing himself the possibility of falling down a rabbit hole that could be richly rewarding or painfully ruinous.

The whiskey was still warm in his veins; maybe he was being foolish. Or maybe he should just take a fucking chance.

John took a step closer, curved a hand over Sherlock’s left shoulder. He felt Sherlock go still, the keyboard falling silent. With two fingers of his other hand, he gently drew the collar away from the side of Sherlock’s neck, exposing the skin he had contemplated so closely before. _Warm or cool?_ John leaned down, savoring the dangerous moment before his lips made contact with that long, pale throat.

It was warm.

He moved to another spot. So warm.

John pulled back slowly, his fingertips tracing up the blue line of Sherlock's carotid artery, unsure if he was feeling Sherlock’s pulse or his own. His hand was surprisingly steady.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “John…” he started, but faltered.

John watched him carefully, saw that he had rattled him. Several more seconds went by. “Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Sherlock opened his eyes. “Stay.”

Sherlock shifted in the chair to face him, his legs grazing against John’s as he moved. He reached out, gathered a corner of John’s shirt in one fist. Letting his knees fall open, he pulled John closer so that he stood between his thighs.

The moment stretched out; John could feel Sherlock’s knuckles through his shirt, sharp points pressing into his ribs. He was vaguely aware of the blood rushing away from his head and to his groin, his breath shallow, the word _devour_ hovering in his mind as they locked eyes. The air was strung with tension, yet he waited, willing Sherlock to guide what would happen next.

Sherlock pulled on his shirt again, dragging him down to his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock didn’t let go of the fabric twisted in his hand. He held on tightly, wanting to pull John into him, harder. He could taste a trace of Scotch, could feel John’s fingers grasping the base of his skull, the rasp of stubble burning his chin, the hardness of teeth and bone beneath his lips. More. He wanted more of John’s mouth, more of his hands.

He had not expected any of this; not John's initial touch, not his own visceral reaction. Any hesitancy he harbored had been burned away. For once he wasn't thinking, only reacting.

John drew back slightly, his hands still wrapped tightly behind Sherlock's head, their foreheads touching, breaths ragged. Sherlock loosened his grip on John’s shirt, letting his palm fall open against his chest.

John dipped his mouth to Sherlock’s again, gentle this time, his fingers cupping beneath his jaw, angling his head up for a series of slow, deep kisses that gave Sherlock the completely irrational but intoxicating impression that his spine was melting.

He had not been touched like this in a very long time. The dam he had built against such contact was rapidly eroding as John took up his bottom lip between his own, held it, releasing it incrementally. He then tilted his head to tease the right side of his mouth, outlining the bottom rim of his upper lip with his tongue, tilting his head again to tend to the left side.

Sherlock’s hands went to the small of John’s back, drawing him in, his splayed legs tightening against John's hips, their pelvises nearly touching. He shifted forward, pulled John in tighter and pressed closer, until -- _there_.

He slid his hands down to John’s arse, rocked him into his own stiffening cock. He heard John inhale sharply, rocked him again, and again, grinding into him, his tongue slipping into his mouth. God, he couldn’t think, could barely remember where they were, just wanting that motion, that hard contact.

A second chime sounded.

John broke his mouth away. “I think..." he managed, “we should stop…before...”

Sherlock stopped, dragging his mind back to the laboratory. John’s hands were clutching his shoulders, his hands still gripping John's arse.

John let out a short laugh, tried to suppress it, but failed. "Oh, my God,” he breathed, utterly surprised at what had just transpired, trying to calm his pounding blood. He looked down at Sherlock, a smile playing on his lips.

They said nothing as they gradually released each other.

“That was… “John started, paused, his eyes flicking to the computer screen as he tried to form a coherent sentence. Something made him look at the screen again, furrow his brow. "That's… an unusually high level of arsenic."

Sherlock turned, and with great difficulty recentered his focus on the numbers displayed on the screen. Deliberate chronic poisoning?

“I should let Lestrade know,” Sherlock said thickly, suddenly unable to recall where he had placed his phone. His body was still vibrating.

He finally saw the phone, picked it up, his fingers clumsy as he typed out a brief text. He put the phone back down and looked at John, momentarily at a loss.

As if he read his mind, John handed him his suit jacket that had been draped over the back of the chair. “Let’s go home.”


	7. Chapter 7

The black door on Baker Street had barely closed before Sherlock pressed John up against the wall. The entryway was hot and close and stuffy, the heat from the day trapped in the small space.

They had been silent during the taxi ride home, staring out their respective windows but electrically aware of the distance separating them. Now that charged energy was finding a release through mouths and hands and fingers in the dark. 

John could feel sweat prickling his back. “Upstairs,” he said huskily, rolling his neck to the side where Sherlock’s lips were skimming up to his jaw. They managed to navigate the stairs, for once shutting the door behind them. It was cooler, but still very warm in the dim sitting room. 

The realization that they were finally, truly alone in a completely private space settled into John’s consciousness. Alone and willing, armor rapidly disintegrating. But, Christ, the heat. 

“Come here,” he tugged Sherlock’s hand, led him to the bathroom. Leaving off the lights, he turned on the shower taps, starting a cool spray of water. He turned back, wiping a damp hand through his hair before drawing Sherlock closer to him. John’s fingers undid the top button of the white shirt, dropped to the second, the third, the fourth, then he could no longer resist sliding his hands beneath the fabric.

Clothes slithered off, discarded in a pile. Stepping into the cool water was a shock at first, soon forgotten as they explored each other’s slick skin. 

Sherlock could taste the fading saltiness of John’s neck and shoulder, rivulets of water washing away the day’s heat. His hands traveled down John’s waist, grasped his hips, pulled him close again, resuming the slow grind they had begun in the lab. He watched as John closed his eyes, noticed tiny water droplets clinging to his lashes. 

He turned John by the hips so that he faced the wall, John’s back now curving against his chest. His hands slid down John’s inner thighs, then traced up, a palm wrapping around his cock, stroking slowly. 

John braced his hands against the tiles, gasping as he felt Sherlock’s prick rubbing against his arse in time with his hand. John lowered his head, felt Sherlock’s mouth on his neck as he pressed against him harder, an arm going around his chest as they bent, moving together. John bucked into Sherlock’s fist, straining against his legs, the shower a roar in his ears, the streams of water running over his skin swirling together in a sensory overload until he shuddered, coming in waves that caused him to cry out hoarsely. He felt Sherlock’s arm still holding him, his body curved around him as he slid forward to rest his forearms against the wall. 

Sherlock stayed pressed against him as he regained his senses, loosening his hold when John finally straightened his back. He turned and stretched up to find Sherlock’s mouth, his thighs brushing against his cock. “Your turn,” John murmured.

Sherlock let John push him back into the opposite wall, his hands and lips grazing over his nipples on a slow journey down his torso. He was instantly hard again at his touch, harder still when John lowered to his knees and took him in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s neck arched back, the crown of his head touching the tiles as he inhaled deeply, his fingers gripping John’s hair, lost under the wet warmth of tongue and mouth and motion. Water was running everywhere, his breath catching, muscles clenching, a groan escaping with a hot rush of release.

He sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall, his brain too saturated with endorphins to think about moving. 

He eventually heard the taps turn off, opened his eyes when John placed a towel in his hands. He hastily dried his hair and tossed the towel aside. Taking John by the wrist, he led him to his bed, pulled him down to the mattress.

They lay in the dark, damp and spent, John brushing a stray curl from Sherlock’s brow, Sherlock’s hand resting on John’s hip. Sherlock watched as John gradually drifted to sleep, wanting to soak in every last detail before his own need for sleep overcame him, slipping into the most content rest he’d had in years.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke to the sight of tangled curls atop the pillow next to him. He was in Sherlock’s room, he slowly realized, in his bed, wearing not a stitch. He couldn’t have felt happier.

He stretched. What had happened last night was... amazing. There was no overthinking, no cautious analysis, just their bodies and basest needs pushing past years of barriers.

He wasn't going to question it now in the morning light, either. As for what came next... he didn’t know, exactly. It would play out.

For now, he took a moment to bask in the peaceful room. Sherlock lay with his back to him, a sheet wrapped loosely around his lean frame. He was a much quieter sleeper than he’d imagined. No tossing and turning, no taking up the bed with sprawled out limbs or sharp jabs with knees or elbows. Instead, he kept himself contained, restricted to a small strip of the bed, limbs folded as neatly as a blanket on a narrow boarding school bed. Maybe that's where he'd gotten into the habit of sleeping in such a small space.

Other bed partners had accused John of being a restless sleeper, prone to sitting bolt upright after a nightmare, of turning over and over because he couldn’t sleep, or reaching out for half-asleep sex to divert his racing thoughts...

God, now he was getting hard. He wanted to touch Sherlock again, take advantage of this small window of morning intimacy before they had to reenter the world. John moved closer, placing a hand on Sherlock’s side, his mouth on the nape of his neck. Sherlock stirred, the sheet falling away from his shoulder and exposing his back. John ran his hand over the warm skin, then stopped, shocked.

He had not seen the pale, irregular smattering of scars marring his back  
last night. They looked like the marks left after a beating with a belt or cord, which, unfortunately, he'd seen numerous times in his practice. These weren't that all that old.

"Souvenirs from Serbia," Sherlock said quietly, startling John.

John ran has fingers over several of the welts, which he assumed were inflicted at some point during his two-year absence. "I had no idea."

He could not imagine what must have happened; actually, he could, to some degree, and it made him wince. He was starting to see another side of the situation, something much darker than he had previously considered. He debated asking a question, then pressed ahead. “Will you ever tell me about the years you were gone?”

Sherlock half shrugged. “Not everyone likes to talk about their war stories, do they, Captain Watson?”

John was stung by his remark, then was forced to acknowledge he had a point. He was not exactly forthcoming about his own experiences.

“But someday, maybe,” Sherlock added sleepily, still on his side.

John knew not to push. The “someday” was enough. He pulled the sheet aside, settled down next to him, fitting their bodies together like spoons as much as their different heights allowed.

His hand found the bullet scar on Sherlock's chest, felt the distinct texture of the skin. _He nearly died._ He pushed the unwelcome thought away.

He directed his mind elsewhere, and it looped back to last night. He had always wondered if Sherlock had had any past relationships… clearly, he wasn’t inexperienced. An intriguing subject that, once again, he knew little about. But now was not the time to ask.

Instead, John ran his hand down Sherlock's torso, hovering just below his hip bone. He brushed his fingers down an inch more, then stopped, waiting as Sherlock tensed slightly in anticipation. His fingers formed a loose circle around the base of his cock, slid up, tightened, then traveled down again. He continued slowly, feeling Sherlock's response in his hand, through the muscles in his back and thighs flexing against him.

“Turn toward me,” John whispered. Sherlock complied, and John resumed the motion, bending down to nuzzle his throat before saying softly in his ear, “I want to watch you come.”

Sherlock could only arch in reply.

*****

Tea. Sugar. A bit of milk. Stir. Sherlock concentrated on the most basic actions in order to keep his mind from wandering off on a tangent that involved replaying several hedonistic moments from the past 12 hours.

Focus on the newspaper. Headlines. Look for murder or crime or theft, or… the words swam together, meaningless. Every sense was aware of John sitting across from him, reading and drinking tea and now glancing up and smiling at him. Sherlock looked down, feeling exposed.

Darkness, seclusion, the heat of the moment were one thing, but daylight, the kitchen, dressed for the day, going about boring normal life with marmalade and spoons and saucers was another. How were people supposed to act together after such rawness? What did they… chat... about? He had never been one to linger after intimate encounters, infrequent though they were.

He had never let himself get drawn into anything real, anything approaching emotional, not since -- well, that was very long ago. But now, with John... His gaze crept up, starting at John’s capable hands, ending at the curve of his neck.

Sherlock’s phone chimed, breaking his thoughts.

     _Awake yet, brother dear?_

Dammit, he’d almost forgotten about meeting Mycroft. He checked the time. He needed to leave in half an hour. He wrote back.

_Of course I’m awake._

          _Be ready on time, won’t you?_

Sherlock slammed the phone down harder than he intended.

“Mycroft?” John asked without looking up from the paper.

“Mycroft.” He dreaded finding out what he wanted from him this time. “I’ve been summoned.”

Sherlock pushed his chair back, finished getting ready.

He was by the door, about to leave the flat, when John walked by with a final cup of tea in his hand. There was an awkward silence.

“So… see you later, then,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” The word came out curtly even though he didn’t mean it to. His expression softened as he looked at John, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, barefoot and freshly shaven, hair slightly mussed. His heart quickened. He didn’t want to go.

His phone rang. The car had arrived.

******

Sherlock was ushered into the office with the usual bureaucratic fanfare. Mycroft, seated at his desk, waved a hand at a chair without taking his eyes from the computer screen. Sherlock remained standing as the door shut.

Finally, Mycroft glanced impatiently at Sherlock. “Have a seat.” He paused, then gave Sherlock a second going-over. He raised his eyebrows. “You’re looking well, despite a… rather late night.” He slowly leaned back in his chair, assessing him further. “And how is John?”

For once, Sherlock had no retort as he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in the chair opposite Mycroft. “What’s this about?”

Mycroft picked up a pen, examined it for a moment. “Your name’s come up for a special job, I’m afraid.” He placed the pen down again carefully on a pad of paper. “You’re knowledge of a certain region is required.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. “Starting when?”

“Immediately.”

“For how long?”

“Two weeks, three at most.” Mycroft looked at him solemnly. “I’m sorry if this comes at an inopportune time. I can only influence so many factors in this arrangement.”

Sherlock stared down at his hands. This was another deal with the devil, his drawn-out punishment for eliminating Magnussen. Before John’s return to Baker Street, he had been sent abroad for several short jobs, had nearly been shot once, almost stabbed another time, leaving the assailant with a broken wrist and nose. He never told John about any of it. This time, however, he had to let him know something. “Could I send a message first?”

Mycroft shifted. “That’s a highly unusual request.”

It taxed Sherlock to say it, but he would do it for John’s sake. He looked Mycroft in the eyes. “Please.”

Mycroft studied him, then relented. “Very well. But keep it extremely short and generic. Do it now before the briefing. You leave in three hours.”

*****

John’s phone buzzed just as he was stepping out to run a few errands. He glanced at the screen as he went down the stairs, then stopped on the landing, trying to absorb the text from Sherlock.

     _Called away suddenly. My regrets._

What the hell did that mean? He went to see Mycroft, and an hour later, this? John’s chest gradually filled with a sinking feeling. He knew it would do no good to text back. Sherlock was off the radar again.


	9. Chapter 9

The cigarette was unfiltered, the coffee strong and sweet. Sherlock sat in a dark corner of the cafe, biding his time before he headed back to the depressing apartment he’d been assigned.

He was waiting, as he had been for days, for a contact to meet him. The only positive aspect of this particular job was the relatively low risk of being killed or beaten, but the boredom was sometimes its own form of torture. There was nothing to do. He read, he walked, he didn’t sleep well. So he drank coffee and smoked.

He hated this. Hated being back in this country, despised being used like a pawn. But the other choice was prison. Mycroft had pulled strings to arrange this alternative, making his services available on demand to the more shadowy branches of government.

He checked his phone again. Nothing. It was not his personal phone, but one he had been given to use. He turned it over and over in his hands, wishing he could let John know he was all right. It was like being dead again. He closed his eyes, picturing Baker Street and John as he had last seen him.

This should all be over in another week. He’d done the legwork, now he just needed to pass the information on to the contact. He knew people who knew certain things about other individuals; he could make connections from the information others didn’t see. But someday soon all the players would change, he’d be out of touch, making him obsolete. At that point, he’d either be set free, or… He stubbed out the cigarette.

Just then a woman approached the table. She wore a simple black dress, conservatively cut yet expertly fitted and carried with an attitude that made it appear immodest. “Do you have a light?” Her voice was deep, accented.

He withdrew his lighter from his pocket. He assessed her as she clasped his wrist to bring the flame closer to her mouth. Dark hair, brown eyes, late 30s, right-handed, well educated, unmarried, and his contact.

“May I join you?”

He stood and pulled out a chair for her. She placed her phone and handbag on the table, blew out a long stream of smoke.

“You are Mr. Holmes, correct?”

“Yes. And you are…?”

“Anika.” She smiled with a predatory gaze. “I’ve been watching you from across the room to make sure I’ve got the right man.” She crossed her legs, letting her foot skim across his shin. “I took the liberty of ordering us drinks.”

A waiter set down two tall, narrow glasses just as she completed her sentence. Vodka, apparently.

She saw him evaluating the drink. “It’s not drugged, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She nodded toward the glass. “It’s a local specialty. Smoother than you might expect.” She took a sip, watching him over the rim. “So let’s just pretend you are a businessman, and I’m a business woman, and that we’re negotiating, hmm? Nobody will notice us.”

She was a ballsy type, he thought, taking a cautious drink. It had a burn, but finished smoothly, as she had promised. He leaned in flirtatiously, just to make things interesting. “Could you spare a cigarette? I just finished my last.”

“Oh, those,” she said dismissively, looking at the butt in the ash tray. “Those are no good. Too harsh. You’re much more refined than that.” She took the cigarette pack from her bag, gazed at him as he pulled one out and lit it.

“Thank you.”

“Mmm, you are proper.” She ran her foot along his lower leg. “I do like Englishmen.”

He exhaled. “So do I.”

She narrowed her eyes, then let out a throaty laugh. “I see.” She held the cigarette, ran her thumb along her lower lip. “Never women?”

He smiled, flicked away the ash without answering.

She sighed. “I get so bored here.” She took another drink. “Well, we can end our business now, if you like, or, if you wouldn’t mind finishing your drink with me, I could use the company.”

He was bored, too, and at least she was lively. “I’ll finish the drink.”

“Make it last, okay? I’ve nothing to do in this shitty town.”

“Not your first choice, this place?”

She laughed derisively. “Not at all. I’m something of an exile. I assume you are, too.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But you get to leave, yes?”

“Soon, I hope.”

“Lucky bastard,” she frowned. “I came here after… political complications. Now I’m just an overqualified courier for some not very nice people.”

Sherlock had to smile at that. “We have more in common than I thought,” he said.

She raised her glass. “To the couriers, then.” She threw back the drink in one shot, signaled the waiter for another. “Another for you?”

He still had half a glass. “Not when I’m working.”

“Of course, still working. You remind me of my husband, in that way. Always working. It’s what got him killed.” Her drink arrived and she took another sip. “He worked too much and didn’t enjoy enough. Then one day” -- she snapped her fingers -- “shot dead while coming home late from work.” She looked at him closely. “What do you enjoy, Mr. Holmes?”

He shrugged. “Work.”

“Ah, what a shame. Is there no one to distract you from all that work?”

He hesitated, and she pounced like a cat. “Ooh, there is, there is… someone quite new, if you’re not sure.”

He glanced away, uncomfortable with how quickly she had honed in on that piece of information. She was sharp.

“I’m embarrassing you. I’m sorry. But I love to hear other people’s stories. Have you known him long?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “I really don’t care to discuss it.”

“So very English…” she tsked, then put her elbows on the table, leaned in conspiratorially. “But I’ll tell you, there’s nothing like those first few months. So delicious. I miss being in love.”

He crossed his arms. She must be pissed.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t presume. I don’t know you at all, and I talk too much. It drove my husband mad, my talking. He was the quiet type.” She took another drink. “I still miss him, even though it’s been four years.”

Anika stared into her glass, her bravura fading for a moment. He watched her, the isolation lurking under her confidence all too familiar. Few other people would understand the long chain of harsh circumstances that had brought them both to this table. He felt an unexpected kinship with her.

Sherlock tossed back the last of his vodka, decided to reveal one thing to his fellow outcast. “John,” he said, and she looked up. “His name is John.” It was liberating to say it out loud, comforting to hear. To speak it in this godforsaken place was to claim back one shred of home.

She smiled. “My husband’s name was Alexander.”

They shared a quiet moment, both desperately wishing to be elsewhere but powerless to make it happen.

Sherlock stood up, placed several bills on the table. “Time to go.”

She nodded, and they each seamlessly picked up the other’s phone, the exchange complete.

*****

Sherlock woke just after dawn, the sunlight gradually creeping into the sparsely furnished apartment with charmless cinderblock walls. He had slept several hours, and now reached for a cigarette. He stopped; he really shouldn’t start the day this way.

It was a lost cause, though, he thought, shaking one loose from the pack. He had been tapering down, but this trip had plunged him right back into a heavy smoking habit.

Anika had passed him the rest of her cigarettes last night when they parted a few blocks from the cafe. “Take these. They’re better, don’t you think?”

He had to agree.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” she smiled up at him, held out her hand, and he took it. “Good luck with your Englishman. Don’t forget to enjoy things.”

Oddly reluctant to see her leave, he followed an urge to bend down and place a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Her lashes fluttered briefly, as if she were remembering. “Bittersweet, is that the word?” She straightened, smiled again, and turned away, disappearing down a narrow alley.

He threw an arm over his head as he lay back watching the wisps of smoke dissipate, thinking about Anika. How openly some people could talk about love, as if it was something so obvious, so easy. It was neither, in his experience.

He studied the ceiling, his mind casting back to his university days. There was a brief time, long ago, when he thought he might have been in love. He nearly flinched as vivid memories of Victor Trevor rose up to him. What had started as a friendship, his only one at school, really, had quickly grown into something more during a month-long summer holiday at Victor’s family estate.

They first met when Victor sat next to him in a lecture hall and started talking, drawing Sherlock out with his wry humor, quick mind, and willingness to look beyond his reticence.

It was Victor who instigated a kiss late one night while they were studying. The moment was awkward, given his own lack of experience, but he found it undeniably intriguing. His curiosity piqued, his heart racing, he cautiously gave himself over to Victor’s mouth and hands.

The holiday at Victor’s home came soon after. It was a heady awakening, filled with furtive night visits laced with stifled groans and the tension of being discovered, afternoon trysts against a shed wall, in the oppressive heat of the glasshouse, the cool shade under a willow by the pond, flashes of tanned arms and necks, pale chests and flanks, sore lips and small bruises left by fingers clutching lifted hips, whispers in the shadows, the warm night air, insects singing as the pretense of a walk led to another secluded spot to feed their insatiable appetite for one another.

It didn’t last, of course. They fell out of contact the rest of the summer, and when the new term started, Victor was distant, noncommittal. Sherlock soon discovered he’d been replaced by someone else. It was such a tiresome cliche: he had assigned too much meaning to their brief affair; to Victor it was a game of pursuit, seduction, and conquest. It was a painful lesson in human nature; crushing, actually. He’d lost not only a lover, but a friend, the first person who treated him not as an oddity, but as someone intriguing, desirable.

Sherlock buried the experience under thick layers of detachment and nonchalance, isolated himself further, concentrated on his studies, told himself the mind was what mattered above all else. The few times he encountered Victor, he kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. Once, in a hallway, Victor had put out a hand, called his name. Sherlock did not stop.

Later that year, Victor left school to return home after his father’s sudden death. Sherlock never saw him again. He heard much later that he had finished his degree elsewhere, moved on to India.

Looking back, he still had difficulty defining the precise essence of those four summer weeks; he could distill infatuation, lust, risk, pleasure, and perhaps, on his part, a faint stirring, alarming and enthralling, of love. Had it been returned, in any small measure, even for an hour?

He tried to picture Victor’s face now, could recall the dark wavy hair, straight brows, sharp nose, and seductive mouth quick to curve to a sly smile, but he couldn’t remember his eyes. They had been blue, but the exact shade was forgotten.

So, love, or something close to it… The more he observed what it did to people, the things it drove them to do, the more he built a wall against it. Emotional entanglement was distracting, clouding, compromising. Being alone allowed him to think, enabled him to focus on the work that challenged his intellect and distracted him from his darker inclinations toward self-destruction.

But then he met John Watson. Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, knowing damn well that all his stalwart objections to sentiment, emotion, and that dreaded word, love, had been reduced to ashes. He only regretted that he had been so slow to see it. He had no doubts now about how he felt toward John, but he was uncertain if John felt the same, or as deeply, as he did. All of the qualms of the past repeated…

He sighed. Disappearing again without warning was surely not helping matters. He couldn’t wait to leave this place behind, lay his body across John’s, breathe him in.

He sat up, dragged a hand through his hair, and began another day of waiting to go home.


	10. Chapter 10

John had been on pins and needles all day, struggling to get through the last of the patients before his shift ended. He’d gotten a text from an unfamiliar number at 3:34 that morning, the exact time and two-word message now etched in his mind:

_Coming home._

He was swept with relief, then anger, then tension, then a combination of all three while he waited.

He carried his phone with him constantly, hoping for another message. He had no idea when Sherlock might arrive. It could be hours or days. Back home, he washed up a few dishes, tried watching telly, paced to the window and back. At some point he decided to go to bed, hoping the day would fade away and time would speed by if he could just get to sleep.

He brushed his teeth, ran a hand over his face as he studied his reflection in the mirror. He felt like he had aged three years in the three weeks Sherlock had been gone. At least he had given him some warning this time, he thought. But it was still hell not knowing what was going on. He suspected Mycroft was involved somehow, could guess that it had something to do with his supposedly minor position in the British government.

_Just go to bed._ He switched off the light, then stood in the hallway for a moment. On an impulse, he turned toward Sherlock’s bedroom and pushed open the door. He hadn’t been in here since the night they spent together. The room was silent, the bedclothes still in a tangle.

He tore off the sheets and remade the bed, restoring order to the room. When he finished, he smoothed a hand over the coverlet. His own room seemed too far away. He turned off the lamp, climbed between the sheets, placed his phone on the empty half of the bed next to him. He fell asleep waiting.

John woke hours later in the dark, fumbled for his phone. 2:22. _Make a wish,_ he thought automatically, a childhood superstition coming back to him.

He heard a noise, the door softly creaking, the rustle of fabric as arms encircled him, Sherlock stretching his length over him, his mouth hungrily seeking his. John’s hands went around his back, grasping at his shoulder blades, wanting to feel his weight press into him, solid, real. A rough moan escaped his throat, a release of the worry, anger, and fear he’d kept locked in for the past weeks.

_Dammit, Sherlock,_ he thought, or maybe he said it out loud, he didn’t know, _Don’t leave like that again._

Not wanting to sleep, but too exhausted not to, their lips met again and again, but slowed, fingertips sliding down backs and arms in final sleepy reassurances.

*****  
John woke gradually, coming out of a dream he couldn’t remember. It was still dark. He couldn’t have been sleeping more than a few hours since Sherlock came back. Sherlock… John’s hand reached out to find the bed empty.

He got up, went to the kitchen, saw Sherlock stretched out on the sofa reading an old newspaper.

“Can’t sleep?” John asked, coming closer.

“Jet lag. I have no idea what time it’s supposed to be.”

“Come back to bed,” John urged, holding out a hand.

Sherlock took his hand and sat up, letting the paper drift to the floor. More awake now, John looked at Sherlock fully for the first time. His hair was slicked back, his black shirt unbuttoned, the shadow of a three-day beard making his eyes somehow even more intense. He looked different: more wolfish, lean, dangerous.

John swallowed, struck by a bolt of intense desire. Sherlock returned his gaze, clearly reading his expression. Still holding his hand, Sherlock pulled John down to the edge of the sofa. He cupped his other hand around the back of John’s neck, drew him in, found his mouth.

John’s palms slid up Sherlock’s back as they sank into the corner of the sofa. Sherlock’s mouth trailed down his neck, his hands pushing up John’s t-shirt, then tugging it off over his head, his lips moved down his sternum. John’s fingers curved into the dip of Sherlock’s back, feeling the twist and slope of his muscles as he moved, the unexpected scratch of beard against his skin adding another layer of stimulation.

Sherlock’s fingers curled under the waistband of John’s pyjama bottoms, pulling them down slowly until John freed a hand and pushed them off impatiently, kicked them away. He worked at the zip of Sherlock’s trousers, tugging them off his hips and onto the floor. The black shirt could stay.

Sherlock slid his hand between John’s legs, his lips traveling down his stomach, to his hip bone, took him in his mouth. John’s head tilted back in response to the pleasure of being unwound by lips and tongue, the rich texture of Sherlock’s hair between his fingers.

Sherlock broke away, stretching out to lie atop him, their mouths rejoining in wide, deep kisses, tongues entwining as their hips rolled together. Sherlock’s hand snaked between their bodies, circled around both their cocks as they moved, finding a mutual rhythm.

John writhed, straining to find the sweet spot, and _that_ \-- _yes, that_ \-- he was practically panting the words, his eyes closing, and -- oh, God -- he was almost there, Sherlock pressing into him everywhere, his hand enveloping them, grasping warm and slick and --- _God God God,_ he was coming, only half aware of Sherlock jutting against him until his head snapped back, exposing his long neck, and John heard his moan, felt the hot release pooling below his navel, the slippery contact of Sherlock collapsing on him, burying his face in his shoulder, breathing hard.

John’s fingers clutched Sherlock’s back, relaxing gradually as their heart rates slowed.

John was stunned, grateful, to be holding Sherlock like this, but after another minute on the cramped sofa he had to move. “Sherlock,” John nudged him, “I need to breathe.”

Sherlock obliged by rolling off of him and settling onto the floor, stretching alongside the sofa. John pushed a pillow toward him and stretched his own legs out.

In the near dark, in the intimacy of the moment, after a long silence, John felt free to speak.

“I don’t suppose there’s much point in asking,” he began, “but where the hell were you for three weeks?”

Sherlock gazed at the ceiling. “Too far away,” he answered vaguely, honestly. He weighed his next words. He couldn’t go into details, but wanted to explain as much as he could. “After Magnussen, a deal was made that obligates me to take on certain work. I don’t choose when, or where… someone else does.”

“And if you decline?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d find a nice secluded spot with razor wire for me.”

John smiled humorlessly. “So what does that make you, then, a spy?”

If only that were true, Sherlock thought, he’d get paid a decent wage and someone might actually attempt to retrieve his corpse if he ever got killed on the job. “Hardly. They use my expertise; I’m indentured and expendable. End of story.”

_Indentured and expendable._ There was no comfort to be found in those words. John’s blood went cold. “Mycroft is involved?”

“To a degree. He does what he can. I don’t know when I’ll be called in again, or where I’ll go. They’ve used me several times already. Maybe they’re done with me, or will be soon. I don’t know.” He looked toward John, but couldn’t see his face.

John kept his eyes on the ceiling. Even though he had suspected some of what Sherlock had just told him, it was still a shock to have it confirmed.

_You knew,_ John chided himself, _you knew going into this about the risk._ Down the rabbit hole to ruin or reward…. How many more times could he do this, not knowing when he’d disappear, when he’d come back? What if something were to happen? He’d be left behind, broken again…

It burned knowing that he couldn’t be there to help, couldn’t protect him from harm or from his own rash actions. John rubbed his forehead. Why did it always have to be so bloody complicated?

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly from below. “I often seem to be in these situations.”

“That’s an understatement,” John replied with an edge of bitterness. Christ, they had bad timing. Always such bad timing. He sat up, his hands clenched.

Sherlock spoke, his voice flat. “I don’t blame you if you hate me.”

John looked at him. “I don’t hate you. I hate the circumstances.” He held out his hand again, bricking up his thoughts. “Let’s just go back to bed.”

*****

Sherlock slept well into the afternoon of the next day. John went out for several hours, stopped to pick up a few letters from the hall table when he came back in. There was one addressed to him in a heavy cream envelope. He held it for a moment, opened it, scanned the contents. Shit, he’d almost forgotten about this… He carefully folded the paper back into the envelope, took it upstairs and placed it on the mantle, next to the skull. He needed to think about it more, would deal with it later. Right now he needed tea.

Just as he entered the kitchen, Sherlock stepped from his bedroom, fixing the final button on his shirt. He was freshly shaven, crisp, John thought, but for the tempting mess of curls.

“Tea?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded as he passed by, heading directly for his laptop without a word, deep in thought. Right, so much for conversation. John filled the kettle, placed a cup by Sherlock’s elbow when it was ready, took a seat in his usual chair, picked up his book, and was lulled into willing forgetfulness by the printed word and the quiet clack of keystrokes.


	11. Chapter 11

A week passed with things returning to normal, except that they weren’t. Certain aspects remained the same -- breakfast, stacks of papers threatening to topple over, odd hours, bursts of Sherlock’s stream-of-consciousness thinking intermixed with silences -- and certain things were quite different. Like finding himself in Sherlock’s bed each night. They hadn’t discussed it; it had just unfolded wordlessly that way at the end of each day, with a look, a touch, an urgent pressing against the wall...

John thought about that last one while walking back from work, feeling a warm burn as he unlocked the front door and mounted the steps to the flat. He entered the sitting room to see Sherlock standing by the fireplace, reading a sheet of paper -- heavy, cream-colored paper, to be precise. John’s shoulders sagged.

“Are you seriously going to do this?” Sherlock demanded, thrusting the letter at him.

“Do you read all my mail?” John shot back, annoyed.

“It’s been sitting open on the mantle for a week. If you hadn’t wanted me to see it surely you would have made some small attempt to keep it private.”

John wasn’t going to argue about the basic tenents of privacy, and instead sat down in his chair with a sigh. “I’ve been meaning to bring it up. There just hasn’t been a good time.”

“Well, according to this, you have two days left to decide.”

John was very well aware of that fact. For once he was the one to remain silent.

“A two-month post in some miserable little village hours away from London?” Sherlock paced behind his chair. “Why on earth would you even consider it?”

John was growing more impatient. “Look, I put my name in months ago as a favor to an old school mate. At the time there wasn’t any particular reason why I wouldn’t consider doing it.”

He saw Sherlock’s mouth tighten. “And now?”

John shifted, put his hand over his eyes for a moment before speaking. “I’m still considering it. It’s just temporary, their regular doc is going overseas -- “

“Oh, let me guess, on a _mercy_ mission. How noble.”

John fixed him with a dark look. “It _is_ for a good cause, actually, and I am considering it because I could use the money, and because I’ve never had a chance to head a clinic before. I do have a profession to maintain, you know.” John reeled off the reasons that made sense when he first applied, then threw his hands up, surrendering to the current crux of the matter. “And because I can’t just sit around waiting to see if you may or may not be here tomorrow. I’ve got to have something to do, to build on."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “You don’t _have_ to go. You have a choice.”

“You had choices, too,” John snapped back. God, the anger he’d been holding back was now coming to the surface. He couldn’t stop the next vicious words from boiling out. “Doesn’t feel very good being left behind, does it?” He immediately regretted it, but there it was, a lash of the pain he’d gone through.

Sherlock’s back stiffened. He folded the paper with razor precision, placed it back by the skull. “You should go then,” he said icily. “You doctors can save the world one village at time.”

“I believe we doctors have saved you a few times.”

They glared at each other until John muttered several profanities and grabbed the letter from the mantle. He turned and stomped up the stairs to his room, slamming the door with more force than necessary. That had not gone well. Not well at all. But he was not going to apologize.

Sherlock stared at the door where John had just left. He had not meant to argue to the point of driving John away, but he had been shocked to read the offer in the letter. Fine, he probably shouldn’t have read it all, but the open envelope had been there all week, and he had held back looking until just now. Two months away in some backwards little town starting in three weeks...

Exactly when was John planning to say something? Maybe he hadn’t been going to accept it; maybe their row had just convinced him to go after all. _Idiot._ Sherlock closed his eyes, angry with himself. Always saying or doing the wrong thing. _Stupid._

*****

They avoided each other until the following morning at breakfast. Sherlock looked up from the paper, was the first to grudgingly break the silence. “So, have you decided?”

John held his mug with both hands, glanced over at the window. “I have. I’m going to do it.”

Sherlock blinked once, hard. “I see.”

John let out an irritated breath. “It’s only two months.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. “Not two _years_.”

The cup rattled in the saucer as Sherlock nearly lost his grip on the handle. He bit back a number of retaliatory comments before pushing his chair away from the table. The flat was suddenly much too small. He picked up his phone and jacket and willed himself to leave before he said something truly regrettable to cover the sting of John’s words. _Keep moving,_ he told himself, _down the steps, out the door, walk._

He stopped at a corner shop and bought a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter, his hands shaking as he tried to start the flame.

Back in the flat, John rested his chin in his hand, aware of the effect his words had on Sherlock. He thought he had made peace with those two years, but Sherlock’s latest absence and the threat of more to come had begun to unfurl like bitter weeds inside of him.

He knew, deep down, it was fear that was making him want to disappear for a while, fear of losing him again, of being helpless to change things. It sparked a sudden desperate need to keep some part of his life independent and segmented from the enormous and overwhelming gravitational pull that was Sherlock Holmes. Maybe, for once, it was better to leave than be left.

*****

When they crossed paths again that evening, neither spoke. Finally relenting, John sought out Sherlock in his room where he was reading. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look, I don’t leave for three weeks yet. That’s a long time to stay angry.”

Sherlock did not take his eyes from his book. “Apparently, it’s not.”

John sighed. “It’s just a job. Eight weeks, that’s all.”

Sherlock remained silent.

John, exasperated, pulled the book from his hands. “It’s just a job, Sherlock.” He watched him, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

“I know,” Sherlock finally said, averting his eyes. “The timing is... suboptimal. We just…” he trailed off.

John understood what he was trying to say. After finally overcoming years of obstacles, he was now adding a new one. But it rankled him that Sherlock seemed to assume more leeway when it came to comings and goings. “I’m not a lap dog, Sherlock,” John found himself saying. “I’m not just going to sit and wait by the fire for you.”

Sherlock let out a short breath. “And I’m not a domesticated office worker with regular hours and a sensible commute.”

They faced each other preparing for another standoff, but John decided to step back, not engage. “Piss off,” he said wearily, without malice.

Sherlock leaned forward to take the book back from John’s hands. “Likewise.”

John shook his head, rubbed his palms against his knees. “Right,” he said, standing up to leave, “I’m going up to bed, then.”

He was halfway out the door when Sherlock said his name. He paused, listening.

“Stay here tonight.”

His hand on the doorframe, John turned. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”


	12. Chapter 12

The street was quiet, placid. Sherlock let the curtain drop back into place. God, he was bored. It’d been two weeks since John left for the wretched little village, whatever it was called.

He’d already tied up a few loose ends for Lestrade, had nothing of interest in the inbox. He needed to be working. He picked up his phone, held it in his hand for a moment, considering. Before he could change his mind, he typed out a quick text to Mycroft .

      _Find me something. 3-4 weeks, anywhere non-lethal._

A short while later, a reply:

      _My, aren’t we eager? I’ll inquire._

A few hours later, another message:

      _Sending a car tomorrow morning. Be ready to go._

Sherlock pocketed his phone, feeling relieved to have something lined up to occupy his time in the coming weeks. He thought belatedly about what he should tell John. They had exchanged only a few texts, John being very busy, and Sherlock not one to send idle observations. He really wouldn’t have to tell him anything, since he’d have no way of knowing if he were in London or Dubai or Addis Ababa.

In the past few weeks things between them had cooled slightly, John retreating to some degree. And while Sherlock didn’t know how to change it, he decided the best tactic was to wait as patiently as he could. He had no illusions about being an easy man to live with, but John was proving to be a challenge as well.

As he had predicted, getting involved was distracting, complicated, maddening; he frankly questioned the wisdom of it at times. But the alternative… Well, he wasn’t very good at being without John. He needed him.

So, the question of what to tell him... Probably best to say he was on another case, might involve some travel. John could extrapolate from there.

*****

When the black car arrived the next morning, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft seated in the back instead of Anthea. He got in, suspicious. “I hardly recognized you without your desk,” he said, noticing the car was not moving.

Mycroft smiled thinly. “I’m en route elsewhere. I thought it would save us some time.” He handed Sherlock a thick envelope. “Your documents. How’s your French these days?”

“Excellent. Better than yours.” Sherlock glanced into the envelope. “Why, where am I going?”

“Paris.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a need for some information on several persons of interest. The details are in there.” He nodded at the envelope. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

It sounded too easy. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Let’s just say you’ve earned a little vacation.” Mycroft smiled again. “But I should mention our dear parents will be joining you in two weeks. So do be quick about the rest of it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, wanting to throttle him. “You bastard.”

“Just for a long weekend. Be nice.”

Sherlock sighed. “When do I leave?”

“This evening. Plenty of time to pack.”

“Are we finished?” Sherlock put his hand on the door handle.

Mycroft hesitated. “I do have one more thing. I’ve inquired about your tenure, shall we say, and how long your services will be required.”

Sherlock froze. “What did they say?”

“I haven’t heard back yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

A possible end in sight… Sherlock nodded, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have this weight removed from his shoulders. He opened the door, then paused before getting out. With his back to Mycroft, he said, “Thank you.”

“ _Bon voyage,_ Sherlock.”

*****

Paris was indeed more like a vacation than work. He met with a few key contacts, placed a few bills into the hands of several homeless people in exchange for information, confirmed several details via an encrypted online chat, and was finished within a week. He spent the rest of the time roaming the city, which he had not visited in over a decade. Granted, the last time he was there he was high most of the time and remembered little more than a train station and darkened room.

This time he sought out obscure museums and bookstores and libraries, immersing himself in architecture, history, art, and macabre oddities. And for someone who cared very little about food, he found himself developing a habit of breakfasting on pain au chocolat and cafe au lait each morning and trying a new wine each night at dinner.

At times he caught himself thinking how much John would like certain thing -- a book, a tidbit of history. He once sent him, without any explanation, a photo of a particularly nicely preserved heart of conjoined twins on display in a museum of medical oddities. John eventually replied: _Do I want to know what this is about?_

He even managed to bear his parents’ visit with more than usual patience, blocking out his mother’s rambling observations by mentally conjugating lists of irregular verbs and storing away newly gleaned and potentially useful facts while she carried on her monologue. Every so often he would glance up at his father, who would smile and shrug at him.

After he saw them off, he spent another week doing nothing but reading, walking, making deductions about random people while seated at a cafe. He was enjoying his solitude and anonymity, glad to have new territory to explore.

But soon it was time to go, and the thought of returning to the empty flat was not appealing. He lit a cigarette -- only the fourth and last for the day, he was determined -- and thought about the next few weeks. Three more to go until John returned. Surely there would be a good murder or kidnapping to fill that time.


	13. Chapter 13

Back in London, Sherlock found a few minor cases to work on, occasionally stopping by the lab at Bart’s to convince Molly to let him run a few extra tests or collect the odd tissue sample needed for an experiment with various acids. 

Late one morning he was surprised to look up and see Mycroft being ushered in by Mrs. Hudson.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked without preamble.

“I have some news.” Mycroft settled himself in John’s chair. “I’ve heard back about your services.”

Sherlock slowly took a seat across from him, folded his hands under his chin, trying to remain neutral.

“They require one more year and your obligation will be fulfilled,” Mycroft announced. “After that, your expertise may be requested occasionally, but not required. Does that sound agreeable?”

Sherlock breathed out, relieved. “Yes.”

“However, I highly doubt any future tasks will be on par with Paris,” Mycroft warned. “Don’t expect anything quite so easy.” He then brushed non-existent lint from his sleeve. “I imagine you may want to share this news with John.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“As a simple courtesy to a flatmate, of course,” Mycroft said innocently, examining his fingernails. “He’s a decent sort, Dr. Watson.” He kept his eyes on his outstretched hand. 

Sherlock scrutinized Mycroft. “Yes, he is,” he finally said.

They were silent for a moment, outwaiting one another. Finally, Mycroft got to his feet. 

“Well, then, brother dear, I’ll be off.” He paused, then turned back before leaving. “You don’t seem terribly busy. Perhaps a short jaunt to the country would do you good. Deliver the news personally.”

Sherlock stared at him, speechless. 

“Oh, please,” Mycroft scoffed. “You’re transparent to me. Always have been.” He turned back to the door again. “Give my regards.”

Sherlock watched him go, too stunned to reply for a number of reasons. He stood and began pacing. Apart from being annoying, perhaps Mycroft did have a point. There was no reason he couldn’t go see John. It would be welcome news, wouldn’t it? Only one more year instead of a bottomless pit of uncertainty? Of course, he was not the best judge of people’s reactions to surprises… He paced a few more times, then made a decision.

*****

John sat at the kitchen table filling out paperwork, a pen in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. In his brief stint as acting head of a small medical practice, he had learned how much he hated the administrative side. He placed the final form onto a stack of other completed papers and stretched his back, finally finished for the night. He had learned a lot these past weeks, some of which he liked and some of which he didn’t. 

He tilted the bottle back and looked around. One of things he didn’t like was the decor of the house he was staying in. It belonged to the doc he was filling in for, and she had a very… flowery taste. Lace-trimmed everything, rose and peony-covered wallpaper, and bright pink bath towels, for God’s sake. Luckily the spare bedroom where he slept was quite plain.

He heard the click of toenails on the floor and felt a wet snout push into his elbow. This was one thing he did like about the house -- the resident dog, a Golden Retriever.

“Hey, Dante,” John scratched behind the dog’s ears and was rewarded with a lick in the face. Although he missed London, John didn’t mind the long rambling walks he took with Dante. In fact, Dante was something of an ambassador; everyone knew him by sight, and by extension came to know the new doctor.

“Just one more week with me,” John said, rubbing Dante’s belly. “Then everything goes back to normal.”

He wondered what normal looked like for himself. He’d been too busy to think much about the situation with Sherlock. He found the few texts he received from him oddly amusing, either terse statements or non sequiturs that he somehow understood. He assumed he was working on cases, although he didn’t mention any details, which was understandable. 

Well, he’d find out where things stood once he got back. Right now, he was tired. It was time to let the dog out then head up to bed.


	14. Chapter 14

The back door of the house had been left unlocked, the knob turning easily. Sherlock slowly pushed the door open until he heard a low growl. He stopped, peered through the window, saw a medium-sized dog on alert. Sherlock squatted down, left the door a tiny bit ajar, heard the dog come closer. A paw emerged, next a muzzle, then a wagging tail. 

Sherlock put out his hand, let the dog sniff, and suddenly he was a trusted friend. “Not much of a guard, are you?” he said, giving the dog’s scruff a good tousling. He checked the tags. “Dante. That’s very grand. Show me around your house, hmm?”

He followed Dante inside, began exploring by peering into cupboards, the medicine cabinet, a few drawers, picking up framed photos and scanning the titles on the bookshelf. The decor was ghastly but the literature was passable. The fridge was full of containers and covered dishes; clearly the neighbors were keeping the bachelor doctor well fed. 

Upstairs, the owner’s bedroom was replete with plush pillows and velvety curtains. He slid open the bedside drawer, raised his eyebrows at the collection of various bottles and tubes. She apparently had a very… fulfilling… life outside of work. Down the hallway, he pushed open to door to the second bedroom, saw John’s trademark hospital corners on the neatly made bed, the room kept with military tidiness. 

A half-hour later he emerged without Dante and began the short walk into town. It was early afternoon and he passed by unnoticed among the handful of people out shopping or chatting.

He saw the clinic, headed for a coffee shop across the way. Knowing John, he’d be popping over within the hour for an afternoon fix. He ordered a coffee, found a newspaper, then settled in a back corner to wait.

Twenty minutes later the bell over the door rang and Sherlock glanced over the newspaper he held. After several false alarms, this time it was John. Sherlock faded into the background as he watched him. He looked well, was chatting easily with the young woman behind the counter who knew his order without him having to say it. 

He looked the very definition of a trusted doctor, a stethoscope looped around his neck, which evoked in Sherlock a peculiar mix of respect and sharp desire. He glanced away before John would notice his gaze. Sherlock heard him laugh at something the girl said, then he paid and was gone, the bell echoing tinnily.

Sherlock sat several minutes longer, collecting his thoughts. He checked his watch. John probably had another two hours of work. Fine. That wasn’t all that long. He could wait. 

*****

Sherlock could not sit still in the house and all its floral garishness. He whistled for Dante, and they set out for a walk, this time in the opposite direction of town. He let Dante choose the route, which meandered along a small road with a dwindling number of houses, opening up into fields and a smattering of farms.

Dante ran to a small pond and dove in after a stick, which he brought to Sherlock and dropped at his feet, quivering with excitement. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and threw it back into the water over and over again, having a smoke until Dante tired of the game. 

They walked on for awhile, then eventually looped back toward the house again. For the first time Sherlock noticed the silence. Not silence, exactly, but the absence of sirens, buses, horns, traffic -- and the presence of birds, wind, leaves. He had never been much of a country person, much preferring the city, but this, he had to admit, was a pleasant change. 

Deep in thought, he absently followed Dante’s tail waving ahead of him like a flag. The dog bounded out of sight, and he walked on slowly, not realizing how near they were to the house. When he finally glanced up again, he saw someone kneeling down to greet Dante. Sherlock stopped, his heart suddenly in his throat. 

He noticed how relaxed John was as he rubbed Dante’s head, smiling as he looked up and met his eyes. When recognition clicked in, John’s expression shifted from surprise to disbelief and confusion. He stiffly rose to his feet as Dante ran over to Sherlock, then back to John, unaware of the gaze passing between the two men. 

Sherlock finally thought to move, closing the distance between them.

“I should have let you know…” Sherlock started, again realizing too late that his disregard for social norms was not particularly helpful in situations like these.

John shook his head slightly, not quite believing it. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course.”

John settled Dante by his side. “It’s just… I didn’t expect this, you coming out here, so far from everything.”

“Yes, well, I had some time,” he took a breath, “and I needed to see you.”

John looked away for a moment before turning back to him, a smile gradually playing across his face. “That’s good to hear,” he petted Dante’s head. “How long are you staying?”

“Until you’re done.” Sherlock nodded toward the black Land Rover he’d hired, another extravagance for which he’d developed a penchant. “We can drive back together.” 

“Well, I’ve got three more days at the clinic, then another to sort out any last minute paperwork and pack. You might be bored out here.”

“I’ll manage.”

John looked at the ground, suddenly a bit flustered that Sherlock had come all this way and was putting aside the Work to be with him. For Sherlock, this was a big gesture. He pulled himself together. “Do you want to go in? But then, I see you’ve met Dante, so you’ve probably already let yourself in.”

“Good deduction,” Sherlock smiled.

They walked toward the house, angling closer together as they went, making it as far as the kitchen before they stumbled against the table in a tangle of hands and mouths.


	15. Chapter 15

They silently agreed to make their way upstairs, where Sherlock tugged John into the master bedroom.

“Sherlock,” John felt odd about the trespass, then Sherlock pulled open the bedside drawer. “Oh…” This was more information than he needed to know about his former school mate. Sherlock closed his palm around a bottle, and John’s eyes stayed fixed on his hand. 

“Your room,” Sherlock said.

Now the bedroom door was shut, the low rays of the sun bathing the room in hues of blue and gold. John dipped his head to Sherlock’s neck, gently biting the sensitive places he knew were his particular weaknesses, his fingers sinking into coils of dark hair. God, he’d missed him more than he’d realized, had been nearly knocked over when he saw him standing there, unexpected, looking both out of place and strangely at home in this setting. 

They hadn’t spoken since closing the door, language replaced by the curve of ribs and collarbones, the planes of shoulders and thighs. John was only aware of how much he wanted him, all of him, right now, in this room. 

His voice hoarse, he could only manage to murmur broken phrases into Sherlock’s ear. “Are you… Can we… ?” The way he was positioned, pressing into him, there was no doubt about what he was asking. He felt Sherlock’s hand, slick, gripping him, guiding him, hips shifting in reply. 

Sherlock’s face below him is beautiful as he bites his lower lip and they adjust gradually, long legs fitting around him. They move slowly, slowly, until Sherlock’s back suddenly arches and his fingers grip the sheets, pulling him in deeper.

John hears a gasp -- his? Sherlock’s? -- and responds with primal motion, the boundaries between their bodies blurring, sensual pleasure flooding his brain, drowning out everything except for the small island of the bed creaking desperately on its cast iron frame.

His blood is singing, his body straining. “John--” he hears Sherlock rasp once, his voice trailing off, his eyes closing just before he comes with a raw sigh that fills the small room, sending John over the edge.

“Oh, God,” John manages to groan, lost in a long, delicious convulsion, riding out a loop of smaller tremors that leave him feeling weak. He sinks onto the mattress alongside Sherlock, pulls him close, can feel his pulse. His fingertips trace those damned cheekbones, his mouth takes up that bottom lip. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

*****

Later, when it was dark, Sherlock told him about the one-year stipulation. John watched the half moon visible through the window. At least now there was a time frame around sudden disappearances and unknown returns. “A year,” he repeated. “And then it’s voluntary?”

“Yes.”

“Would you? Willingly go, I mean?”

“It depends,” Sherlock answered. “There are certain places I wouldn’t go, but I can’t say I wouldn’t consider others, especially when work in London is slow.”

John nodded slightly, understanding the thrill of the game would always be a lure. That would never change. But having the choice to go on a job was far more palatable than being forced. He wondered if a doctor would ever be needed to accompany… “I think,” he finally said, “a year is not that long. But it drives me mad that I can’t be there, and don’t know when… Look, promise you’ll let me know if you have to suddenly disappear, just one word.”

“‘I will.”

They were silent a moment as Dante yawned, turned in a circle, settled on the rug on the floor by the foot of the bed.

“What about you?” Sherlock eventually asked. “Does this suit you, being a full-time doctor again?”

“Honestly… no.” How did he know he’d just been thinking about this? “There are parts of it I enjoy...”

“You like the emergencies.”

“Well, I do. But I miss the Work -- your work.” John hesitated, then turned to face Sherlock as he began talking earnestly. “Look, the thing is... we don’t have forever. We’ve got now, and we have do whatever it is that drives us, so we just need to sort it out as we go along. I don’t know any other way to go about it.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“Yes, but --”

“It’s imperfect.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“But here we are.”

John held his gaze, stuck at a logical -- or maybe illogical -- impasse. Maybe it was a perfectly fine place to be. Neither said anything, contemplating.

“We’ll never be normal, whatever that is,” Sherlock finally said, curling around him. “I don’t care. I just want to be here right now.”

Sherlock was right, John thought. It was never going to be perfect or smooth or sane, but it was as necessary as air. Warmth spread through John’s chest, and he allowed a happiness to simmer up that he hadn’t known in a very long time.


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning John left for work, and Sherlock sat on the porch reading while Dante dozed at his feet. He had brought his laptop, but it remained unopened on the table inside.

He heard the crunch of gravel, looked up to see an ancient truck swing into the drive. An old man stepped out carrying something in his hand.

“Morning,” the man said. “Is the doctor home?”

Another offering from the neighbors, apparently. “He’s at work.”

“I figured that might be the case. You a friend of the doctor’s?”

“I am.”

“Could you give this to him?” He held out a glass jar, which Sherlock saw was filled with honey that glowed like gold in the sun. “He fixed up my granddaughter’s broken arm the other day. Just wanted to thank him again.”

Sherlock took the jar in his hand, turned it, entranced as bubbles rose within the viscous liquid that clung to the sides. “Did this come from your bees?”

“It certainly did.”

“Remarkable.” Sherlock held it up in the light again. He had a high regard for insects in general, bees in particular. Curiosity got the better of him. “Would you show me how it’s done? I’ve read about it, but have never seen an apiary.”

The old man looked both pleased and confused. “You want to know about bees?” He looked dubiously at Sherlock’s expensive clothes.

“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“And who are you again?”

“Friend of Dr. Watson’s up from London. In between projects at the moment with an entire day to fill.”

“Well, sure… I suppose I could show you around.”

“Could Dante come?”

“The dog? I don’t see why not.” He held out his hand. “My name is Thomas.”

Sherlock shook his hand. “Sherlock.”

*****

“You spent the day with a farmer?” John looked incredulously at Sherlock, the table covered with several jars of honey and a wedge of honey comb that sat oozing on a plate. He had just returned from work, dropping his bag on a chair.

“Beekeeper.”

“You must be really bored.”

“On the contrary. Bees are fascinating creatures. Far more industrious and intelligent than most humans.”

“You sure you’re not bored?”

“I’m fine. Dante is good company.”

John noticed Dante lying at Sherlock’s feet; he rarely left his side now. “I didn’t know you liked animals so much,” John mused.

“I had a dog growing up,” Sherlock replied. “Animals don’t judge you.”

John tried to imagine Sherlock as a boy, with Mycroft as the all-knowing older brother. That couldn’t have been easy.

“What are we going to do with all this?” John asked, looking at the table again.

“Take it with us. Here,” Sherlock picked up the plate with the honeycomb, dipped his index finger into the pool of sweet sticky liquid, held it out to John. “Taste.”

John looked skeptically at his finger glistening with honey, then, as if accepting a dare, guided it into his mouth, letting the sweet nectar melt around his tongue as Sherlock withdrew his finger slowly.

“That’s the taste of flora within a two-to-four mile radius,” Sherlock pronounced, watching John closely.

John could only swallow the sweetness, utterly distracted by the lingering sensation of Sherlock’s finger in his mouth.

Sherlock set the plate back on the table, licked the tip of his own thumb.

 _Oh, Christ._ John had to look away for a moment. He’d just stepped in the door and already wanted to tear off Sherlock’s clothes and go down on him. But he had too much paperwork to do; he had to focus.

Sherlock merely glanced in his direction, and John found himself crossing over to him, pulling down on his lapels, bringing his mouth closer, seeking another taste of floral sweetness warmed by body heat. He found it, savored it, finally letting go, stepping back. “We’re definitely bringing the rest with us…”

“Yes…”

John cleared his throat. “I’ve got a bit a paperwork to do tonight, so… maybe some dinner first. And the paperwork, after dinner.”

Sherlock almost smirked at his discombobulation. “Alright.”

“Right.”

*****

John finished his work in record time, nearly pouncing on Sherlock, who had taken over the sofa. The book he was reading had just slipped to the floor, unnoticed, when John’s phone rang. “Shit,” John muttered. He grabbed the phone, looked at the number. “I have to get this.”

He sat up to answer the call, clicking instantly into physician mode as he listened and asked several pointed questions, ending with, “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He turned to Sherlock. “I’ve got to go. A patient I saw earlier today is complaining of chest pain. Probably nothing, but just to be on the safe side.”

“Take the car.”

“Really?” John asked, tucking in his shirt. “You never let me drive.”

“It’s an emergency. Keys are on the table.”

John saw them, scooped them up in his hand, dashed out with a short nod.

Sherlock lay the on sofa in the sudden quiet, thinking how he was usually the one dashing out the door. Unless the patient had been poisoned, there was nothing for him to do but wait. Dante gazed at him from his dog bed in the corner. “Alright, you,” Sherlock told him, swinging his feet onto the floor. “Walkies.”


	17. Chapter 17

It was late when John returned. He found Sherlock upstairs, asleep on his side with the book still in one hand, Dante sprawled out on the other half of the bed. John nudged the dog until he jumped to the floor, slid the book from Sherlock’s hand. He switched off the lamp, pulled off his clothes, tried to slip into bed quietly, but Sherlock was already awake.

“How’d it go?” he asked sleepily.

“Fine. Stabilized and sent on to hospital for additional monitoring.” John ran his hand down Sherlock’s bare arm.

“You’re damp,” Sherlock noticed, touching John’s hair.

“It just started raining.”

There was a flash, and a low rumble of thunder rolled against the house, making the glass in the windows vibrate. The wind picked up, the smell of ozone threading into the room. Fat drops hit the panes, gathering force.

“Sorry I had to leave so suddenly.” John gazed at him, drinking in this rare unguarded moment.

“S’alright,” Sherlock answered, half asleep, his fingertips moving to the scar on John’s shoulder. After another moment, he spoke again. “There is one thing you could do.”

“What’s that?”

“That thing you do, to my neck,” he said. “That’s… good.”

John slowly grinned, bent his head, letting his mouth linger over the warm skin just below his ear. “This?”

Sherlock stretched catlike, luxuriously. “That.” Another lightning flash, the thunder rolled again.

John trailed his mouth down his neck, stopping at a place that caused Sherlock to shiver. His hands roamed, stroking the skin on Sherlock’s lower back, over the sharp bone of his hip, down the curve of his thigh, eliciting a small exhalation. He loved to see Sherlock melt, loved that he was allowed to be the catalyst of his undoing. Before John could think, words tumbled from his mouth in a sigh against Sherlock’s throat. “I love you, you know.”

John went still, surprising even himself. He lifted his head, searching Sherlock’s face for his reaction.

Sherlock’s eyes were cast down, the rain continuing to beat against the roof as he processed the words.

“Say it again,” Sherlock finally responded, not meeting John’s eyes.

“I... love you,” John repeated, a bit self-conscious, but it still felt right as the words entered the air. _It’s true,_ he thought, marveling at what was happening, _and I just said it out loud. Twice._ Gaining momentum, he went on. “Not just as a friend,” he clarified. “More. Much more.”

He could see flickers of emotion crossing Sherlock’s face as he struggled to form a reply. He knew this was sending him into a tailspin. “You don’t have to--” John began softly, but was cut off as Sherlock’s mouth covered his in a swift surge.

Sherlock pulled back for a moment, his hand cupping the side of John’s neck, finally meeting his eyes, clearly moved, yet not quite able to believe what he had heard. “You really do?”

“Yes,” John laughed, liberated, amazed. His expression softened. “I always have.”

Sherlock twined around him, overwhelmed, and John rested his cheek against the top of his head, listening to the rain, anchoring, complete.

*****

Dante’s wet nose had nudge Sherlock awake. Now he was outside in the misty morning walking with the dog, his mind as hazy as the fields around him. He felt like he was moving in a dream, not sure what was a mirage and what wasn’t. Such as last night. It was difficult to believe he could be this fortunate, that John found him worthy. It felt like he now carried something delicate in his chest, something that might shatter like glass if he moved too suddenly.

The sun was rising higher, and he noticed the angle of the rays lighting up cobwebs covered with dew, illuminating beads of water glistening on the grass at his feet.

Dante trotted beside him, ran to the back door as soon as they were in sight of the house. Sherlock followed, opened the door, pausing as he watched John finish pouring the second of two cups of tea, steam rising off the surface, his hair gleaming in the sunlight.

Sherlock moved to him, slid his arms around his waist, backed him up against the nearest wall. He was inexpert when it came to words of tenderness, the vocabulary unfamiliar, practically foreign. But he could speak in other ways, his mouth brushing across John’s, the tea cooling, forgotten on the table.

“I have to go to work,” John eventually protested, not very convincingly.

“Be late.”


	18. Chapter 18

People. Sherlock sat at the end of the bar in the seat closest to the wall and in the deepest shadow available, drawing a line through the condensation on his glass with his finger. John was next to him, chatting animatedly with several of his colleagues from the clinic. They had insisted on taking John out for a pint on his last day of work, and John had cajoled Sherlock into coming along through a series of texts, ending with the words Sherlock could not refuse. “For me.”

Sherlock glanced at the group, making cursory deductions. One man, a lab tech of some kind, was married with kids, worried about finances. An older woman, the receptionist, painted as a hobby; disliked her job. The two youngest women were both nurses. One was flirting with John, clearly interested in the apparently eligible doctor. He smiled to himself at that. There were a few others at a nearby table -- an office manager, another technician, a pediatric nurse. He glanced away.

“You look like you play a good game of darts.”

Sherlock turned. The other technician -- wait, phlebotomist -- was standing behind him. She was tall with auburn hair and long fingers.

“I’m quite good, in fact.”

“C’mon then,” she led the way to the back room, a pint in one hand. “My name’s Margaret, in case you missed that.”

He had missed it. Margaret gathered the darts. “Mind if we warm up a bit?” She stood behind the line, tossed her hair back, delivered three decent throws. “Your go.”

John watched them from the bar, amused, before shifting his attention back to the conversation at hand. Another hour and pint or two later, John collected Sherlock, who was with Margaret discussing the relative rarity of certain blood types and its usefulness to crime scene analysis.

They left the stuffy pub and entered the cool night air, setting off on the walk home.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” John asked, feeling a bit lightheaded.

“Bearable.”

They walked on, their arms and shoulders occasionally brushing, the moon casting just enough light to see the way. John looked up, noticing how clearly the stars stood out against the black sky.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak at length since John’s unexpected revelation last night. The knowledge continued to settle within John, deepening slowly, warmly, as he waited for Sherlock to acknowledge this seachange in his own unpredictable way.

They neared the house. “It’s too nice to go inside just yet. One more drink out here?” John suggested.

They found a bottle of Scotch and two mismatched glasses, settled in two battered chairs that faced each other under an old oak tree in the back yard, stretching out their legs, their feet nearly touching.

“It’s been good having you here,” John said offhandedly. “You seem a bit… calmer.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock thought about it, the Scotch burning a welcome trail down his throat. “Someone once advised me to not forget to enjoy things. Maybe I listened.” He thought briefly about Anika, and, grudgingly, Mycroft, who had suggested he come here in the first place.

They both looked at the stars through the shifting leaves of the tree, feeling a bit loose from the drinks as Dante roamed the yard around them.

“I’m ready to get back to London, but I think I might miss this a little bit,” John admitted, still looking up at the sky.

Sherlock took another sip from his glass. “It has its merits,” he allowed. “Like having room for a dog.” His hand went out to pet Dante’s back as he loped by.

John glanced at Sherlock, curious. “Would you ever leave the city? I mean, move to the country someday with dogs and bees and nobody around for miles? No crime?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about the long-term.” There were times he didn’t think he’d ever live this long, he thought to himself. But five years ago he found a reason to keep going, although he had never dared to think very far ahead, never allowed himself to picture what the future might look like.

Last night, however, had opened up an entirely new realm of possibilities. His eyes fell on John, and he cautiously let his mind cast forward a year, then five, ten...twenty. He was surprised that he could easily imagine John’s steady presence in each scenario. The future, he realized, wasn’t an empty, blank expanse anymore. Someday, a house with myriad bookshelves, a dog, the seashore, John… he wanted those things, would not let them slip away despite the risks he cultivated.

He leaned forward, seized with the urge to confess the thoughts that were rising up in him. “John...” he hesitated, unsure how to encompass everything he meant to say, then plunged in. “I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’ll come back. I’ll always come back to you, or die trying.”

John returned Sherlock’s gaze, struck by the intensity in his voice. “I believe you,” he said quietly, sitting up, drawing nearer.

Several moments passed, then Sherlock leaned in closer, John mirroring his movements, a drink grasped in one hand, the other rising up to slide across a cheek, lips meeting, eyes closing, blood running warm, a bit dizzy.

John heard the words, spoken so low and soft between kisses, he might have missed them. “I want to grow old with you.” But John heard. His heart leapt, filled with the strength of nine new lives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending by leaving the boys here, finally communicating!
> 
> And as a little bonus Easter egg: the word "heart" appears 9 times in the story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it.


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